Merely Me and The Cat
by Scratch O'Brien
Summary: I was me. All I did was run away from home. It's not my fault the dumb tabby followed me.
1. Disclaimer

All characters unfamiliar with the Disney movie Newsies are mine. If there are any similarities in name, personality, or physical description of any character(s) with any other movie, musical, book, or fan fiction character(s) it is purely unintentional.

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Thank you!

Regards,

Scratch O'Brien


	2. Tabby Cat

The cat walked across the dusty floor with a dead mouse in his mouth and dropped it at my feet. Well, it was better than when he left it in my boot.

"You keep it," I told the rusty orange tabby. Gingerly, I kicked the mouse back at him with the toe of my shoe. Happy that he was allowed to keep his spoils of battle, the cat proudly picked up his prize and, tail in air, high-stepped off to eat it.

I shuddered. I hated blood. Raw meat nauseated me.

With as light a tread as I could manage, I slipped into my room. Peeling off my nightgown, I pulled on a grey-blue dress. Over it went my white pinafore.

Just barely a decade on earth and I was running away; away from Mother and Father (by birth only) and the never-ending shame I seemed to bring them.

I opened the door quickly.

_"Squeeeeak!"_

I darted out the door, not bothering to shut it, not bothering to look back.


	3. Valora: Insight One

_I suppose I should have shut that door. Maybe I could have prevented what happened from happening. Or not. That cat is faster than lightning... _

_It's not like I tried to bring shame to my family, but I did. I never got excellent grades, and my white Sunday dress was never clear of mud for long, unlike my perfect, blonde, older sister. _

_I was just me: Valora. _

_If my parents would have known what I would amount to, they would have never named me Valora; it means "valor."_

_Then again, they might have..._

_but I haven't talked to my parents in, oh, six years._


	4. A Startling Blue

And so I ran; I sprinted; I flew.

Across cobbles, and dirt; my boots loosely laced. Off I ran, off, off.

The late night life of New York that I had heard so much about but had never seen surrounded me; cigar smoke, drunks, and women of an, er, profession tha most considered less than respectful.

I didn't know what to do; I had turned ten earlier that day. I was nothing but utterly naive to this entire running away business, but I knew if I had stayed in the little Queens apartment I would suffocate, watching blonde Mary get the attention: several dresses with frills, getting called "Princess" and the like. Not like I minded.

Well, maybe I did.

And this is why I ran; for freedom. There wasn't much else to do, really.

* * *

He found me earlier the next morning.

A mere quarter-inch taller than me; a mere year older, though I was to find that out later.

He was just standing there. Looking. When I woke up of my own accord, he was on his knees, looking straight into my eyes with his own, a startling blue.

I had slept that night with my head resting on my arms.

He calmly offered me a hand, and helped me up.

I stood there, starting in awe at this boy; he wasn't amazing in any other fact except that he seemed to exude confidence, cockily, yes, but not like pampered-Mary-confidence. That confidence came from everyone worshipping her.

The blonde-haired boy suddenly but slowly turned around. He was about five yards away from me already.

Using the index finger of his right hand he slowly beckoned to me.

Me? I pointed to myself as I mouthed the word.

He nodded.

I slowly walked forward...

...and so started the hurricane.


	5. Valora: Insight Two

PRESENT-- (Valora)

_I was bent over a book of Shakespeare's works ( the long poem_ Venus and Adonis_, to be exact) when I felt fingertips trace a path up my spine._

_"Stop that!"_

_"No."_

_The fingertips came down, then went back up, where they continued up my neck and tucked my hair behind my right ear. The left hand joined the right to lift up my ginger hair from my shoulders. I felt short-ish straight hair on my neck. Warm breath on my skin._

"Stop!"

_The hair lifted from my neck._

_A murmur in my ear, the lips so close to my earlobe I could feel them move with the voice."Your voice says 'no', but there's a 'yes' in your tone." Something- I think the tip of a nose- traced it's way back down my neck, then two inches away from the base of my neck. It couldn't go further becuase my shirt was buttoned up all the way. Then a tanned right hand reached forward and made to unbutton the next two buttons, before I clasped it in my own right hand._

_"No." I said._

_"Yes." The voice replied nonchalantly, but the hand attached to an arm laced it's fingers through mine then reached it's left hand down (attached to another arm) to lace it's fingers through my left hand._

_I tilted my head up to face a face with blue eyes. Not the startling cerulean they had been, but more silvery. The mouth smiled. The lips pressed mine briefly._

_"You win." I whispered._

_"I usually do," the voice (attached to a boy) bragged._

_The thumbs of his hands rubbed my thumbs, and his forehead rested on mine. I felt his sigh stir my hair._

_We heard footsteps coming up the stairs._

_Then I heard the creak of the fire escape._

_I was back to reading_ Venus and Adonis _by the time the church society lady came upstairs._


	6. Pinafore Finn

He led me all the way to Brooklyn, this cerulean-eyed boy. Not by the hand, of course. At ten and eleven, the opposite gender still had cooties. But I felt compelled to follow him; I felt he could be trusted. If I had only known that a few yards behind us was the tabby, who would turn my life into a nightmare similar to the burning, smoldering ashes of Pompeii in only a few short years.

"Whaddaya say, Spot? An' who's dis?" An older boy --about sixteen-- with burning, flecked brown eyes said. His hair was a strawberry blonde, and he had a black walking stick with a gold knob in the belt loop of his dark grey trousers. he was sitting with a gaggle of other young boys, and, actually, three girls. They were dressed like girls too: skirts, shirtwaist. I could tell they weren't some of the desreputable woman I had heard of... it was broad daylight and none of them were painted.

"A goil." _Ah, so this boy's name is Spot,_ I thought.

"No, really, smart one! What'shername?" He said it like it was all one word.

"What is your name?" The boy --Spot-- turned to me.

"You didn't ask her her name?" The older boy laughed, along with the others. "I though you had more manners than that."

"I don't want to use my name anymore." I said, quietly, as was my manner. They all turned to me.

"Why is that?" The older boy had a sudden softer look in his face. The eyes still burned, but in a kinder way.

"Because my family is my family by birth only. I don't want to use their name and I think they'd be relived if I dropped it."

He nodded. I saw this odd look in his eye. I was too young to decipher it then, but I now know it as an internal pain. I have had that same look in my eye many a time. "You'll need a new name, then."

I nodded.

"Pinafore."

"What?"

"We're gonna call you Pinafore." The others nodded, and the girls giggled. I heard the "she's so cute in her little dress" murmers, the first of them that would continue to plauge me until I reached nearly thirteen.

I looked down at the white high-waisted apron that had earned me my name. "Alright. Do I need a last name, too?"

"Finn."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. It's the name of this one kid in a book my sis' read." There was that look in his eye again.

I nodded.

"So, Pinafore Finn. I am Slip Danic, leader of these Brooklyn newsies."

"You're newsies?" My mother had spoken of newsies and bootblacks with contempt. Hattie (one of the household servants who took on the mother role for me) said that her boy was a bootblack.

"Yeah, and now you're one too." I found that rather abrupt. I decided to go along with it, though. Most of the newsies I met were actually nice. I had lost my way in a market once when I was three, and I didn't know what to do besides huddle in a corner and cry. Then a boy with a stackful of papers in his arm tapped me on my shoulder and asked me if I was lost. He was a tall slim boy. He was also African-American, and my mother and father and sister were racists... which always made me wonder why they hired Hattie, but Hattie took care of me and I loved her as if she was my birthmother, so I had never grown up with racism. I nodded a yes. He took me by my hand and led me to a plump German woman selling eggs. "This is Mother Adle. You just wait right here until someone comes for you." I nodded. I rarely spoke in public; my mother had taught me that little girls (all except Mary and me, of course) were to be seen and not heard. Mary was to say whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and I was to be seen as little as possible and not even allowed to breathe loudly. No one came for me except the Scottish cook.

"Och, poor little lamb!" She had said; then a "Thankee, Adle," as she walked me home. But back to the present (or, at least, the present then):

"Alright... so what do I do?" I asked.

"You sell papers."

"How?"

He held up a paper. "Like this: EXTRY, EXTRY! MAYORS COUSIN WAITING MURDAH TRIAL!" His thick, rough, Brooklyn accent mixed with what I though was a hint of a brouge, rang loud and clear. His stack was half gone. "Now you try. Spot, why are you still here?" He was handing me four papers when he spoke.

"'Cause I'm done sellin'."

"Good. Help Pinafore, then." The other newsies had gone, except two, a boy and one of the girls, who were both preoccupied at the momet, as they were "making out" as Slip would tell me later with a sideways glance and a wink at another newsgirl.

Spot rolled his bright blue eyes but stepped forward to help me.

"Right. Okay, the way you're gonna sell is not ta be loud and yell like I just did. You need to go up to people and ask 'em to buy a paper."

My eyes grew wide. "B-b-but... little girls are to be seen and not heard!" I protested, horrified at what one of these ladies would say if I spoke to them without being directly asked a question.

"Who told ya dat? Nevahmind, trust me, people like cute little girls like you asking them to buy a paper. Just do it. Spot, watch her."

"Go find a group a people, or a gentleman and lady walking togethah. Den ask." Spot said.

I ventured up to a lady dressed in walking skirt, strolling with her husband or her beau. It was summer, so she had a lace parasol in her hand to keep the sun off her perfect lily skin.

"Ma'am? Sir? Would you care to buy a paper?"

They turned around. "Oh, isn't she a darling!" the lady exclaimed. "Of course, dear. A penny apiece, is it?" I didn't know. I had forgot to ask. I just nodded. Her husband handed me a penny and took the paper.

"Here's a nickel just for yourself, dear."

"Th-thank you." I curtsied slightly. The couple went off smiling and talking about what a good little darling I was. I just stood stunned. I had three papers left. One out of three sold, not even half... oh no! I heard laughter and found Spot and Slip behind me.

"You're good, kid. You had 'em sold at 'ma'am' and 'sir'. Rich people love stuff like dat. Usually the curtsey would've been overkill, but, kid, you're so cute it works!" Slip chuckled.

"But I have three left!"

"So? Sell 'em."

Oh, right. I sold them. The last paper earned me an extra penny and a pat on the head by an older woman.

"So, kid, how much did you make?"

One penny plus one nickel equals six cents. Plus one penny plus one penny plus two pennies equals ten cents. "Ten cents."

"You serious? They tipped you! You're so cute they tipped you!" He was laughing again.

"How much money do I owe you then?"

"Whaddaya mean, Pinafore?"

"Well, don't you hafta buy the papers to sell them? And you gave four to me, so how much do I owe you?"

"Well, if we get two papers for a penny, how much do you owe me?"

"Two cents!" I handed him his two pennies.

"Let's go get you two dinnah. I'm buyin'."

And so became my career as a newsgirl.


	7. We Just Lived

It was not until Slip had mentioned dinner that I realized I was hungry. So I willingly followed him to the marketplace.

We weren't too far; a few blocks, at most. We picked up three apples and a loaf of brown bread. Simple, filling and cheap. I would soon grow accustomed to this meal; later on, when I was older, I would occasionally get a tomato or a bag of broken cake or something to add variety. Or if I didn't sell all my papers I would eat those remaining.

After our meal, partaken of while sitting on a bench in Prospect Park, we set out to the lodging house.

The lodging house had four floors: the top floor was the attic, the third floor was for the girls (because it was warmer up there in the winter) the second floor was for the boys, and the main floor was the common room (though the mingling and flirting between the two genders was usually saved for outside the lodging house) and sign-in station. We had five volunteer matrons from various church societies and five volunteer wardens from more church societies. (Not refuge-type wardens; just older men who had been approved to work around children and keep young men and women from mixing. All of them were nice, except for one rather eerie fellow, but that situation was bound to happen anyway and was resolved before anything could happen.)

Rent was reasonable, and I was well protected by the older girls who found me just utterly adorable. This was a setback too, though. I never had a moment to myself because "life on the streets is tough, and we can't let a sweet little thing like you get hurt!".

Every night there was a different girl who insisted on combing my hair, and every morning another girl who styled it, usually in two braided pigtails or one French braid, the latter being my favorite.

It wasn't that I was the youngest in the lodging house, (though I was, but only by two months) or that I was the cutest; it was that I was one of the three who allowed their hair to be played with. The other two were Rosie and Jenny; we were all three best friends, of course. We never had the "third wheel" problem.

I always sold with a girl named Pepper. She was fifteen. We both had the same ginger-root hair color, and the same hazel eyes, so we could pass for sisters. She also happened to be the young woman Slip, had winked at while telling me what "making out" was. Pepper responded by blushing. I, being ten, was entirely disgusted, though the embarassment of that could not hold a candle to the discussion Pepper and another girl had with Rosie, Jenny and me when we three were all thirteen. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate any further on that subject.

Every morning I willingly set off hand in hand with Pepper, who Slip sought out every morning, and after a kiss betweent the two (a thwarted one; usually one of the matrons caught them) we were off.

I was grateful to have Pepper as a selling partner. I did not have the streets memorized. Remember when I said that I couldn't stand the little Queens apartment anymore? That apartment was really my room; I had to earn board from my parents by working in the kitchen. I was washing dishes at three and scrambling eggs at five. My world consisted of the kitchen and Hattie and Robina the Scottish cook and the butler Hewitt.

But I soon found another world: the outside world, where I had to look out for carts and rival gangs and criminals. But it was a world I enjoyed; I had the newsies, after all. What more did I need?

Pepper especially became like a big sister to me. When I needed to let out the seams of my frock, Pepper brought out scissors and needle and thread and taught me how. When I was sad, she cheered me up.

Pepper and I had many adventures together. Our great escapades consisted of running from the cops after throwing dirt clods at them, making up headlines and meandering through Prospect Park until we met Slip. Then I was on my own; not forgotten, no. My time with Pepper was just over, and I found my own amusment. First the boys my age would allow me to play marbles with them, then later on after it was obvious that I was not a novice (the servants children and I would always play marbles after chores on rainy days) I was not allowed to play under the pretense that it was a "boys only game." No matter. I would just go back to the lodging house and the other girls would play with my hair, or I would read a book (there were actually several floating around).

Later I had the brilliant idea to bring a book with me wherever I went. I recived odd looks from passerby in the park as I sat on the ground with my back against a tree and read _Oliver Twist_ or _Treasure Island_ while on the other side of the same tree a teenage girl who looked just like me and boy who looked to be about the same age as the teenage girl rudely showed affection in public. I do admit Pepper and Slip swapping saliva isn't the most pleasant sight, but I'm sure everyone else has done it at some point, too.

Life was hard, but fun. I had a rare day every once in a while when I wouldn't sell all my papers. But I would just eat the leftovers, or sell them at half price to fish mongers to wrap up their fish in. Once again, the latter option was my favorite; I didn't earn a profit, but I was able to get rid of them without having to eat them.

We always found something to amuse ourselves, usually marbles or slingshots. Spot taught me how to make and use a slingshot. I wasn't the best at it, but I still was a fair shot.

If there was nothing else to do, I would lie on my bed and close my eyes and make up a story to myself in my head. My stories usually consisted of me finding out that Pepper really was my sister, and that my parents really just took me off the streets for free labor, and how Pepper and I found out we were really princesses. Or I would take a book that I read and put myself in the main characters place. Sometimes I would wake up in the morning thinking the stories I made up were true. Then I remembered.

Sometimes, but only very late at night, I would imagine seeing all the people from my old life again. How, maybe, _maybe_ my parents really did love me. But then I remembered again.

I actually did see Hattie once; I almost ran over to her to say hello when I saw my mother next to her. Just at that moment my mother turned her head and made actual eye contact with me. Recognition of her second, shameful daughter came instantly; after all, I was still in the same grey-blue knee-length dress and white pinafore.

I grabbed Pepper's hand and ran, pausing to explain only when we were two blocks away. Pepper gave me a sympathetic look. One of the many things I loved about Pepper is that she would not push. She just nodded when I finished and assured me that if Mother came around with the cops we would deny everything and say my name was Lily and her name was Christina and we were selling papers to help pay for our brother John's medication because he had a bad cough. The police usually stayed away from kids who said they lived with someone who was ill. We continued to sell our papers, and, luckily, no cops came.

---

I suppose that we just lived; it wasn't hard. We would play, and laugh, and cry. My life was just my life: nothing more, nothing less. Sundays I went to Mass, if I remembered, that is. I practiced using my slingshot, and I got into fistfights over silly things, only to be pulled out by Spot. I had the curious feeling that I had be assigned to Spot so he could take care of me. I didn't really like that, of course, but one didn't argue with Slip (who was leader.)

Ten, eleven, twelve years old. The years seemed to fly. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. And now finally sixteen.

But, I suppose you would like elaboration on each year of my life, no?


End file.
